Lucius Malfoy at the psychiatrist's office
by Verecie Millitude
Summary: Narrowly escaping a jail sentence after the events of the War, Lucius is forced to see a Muggle psychiatrist. Being Lucius, he is not happy about this. Lucius POV. Profanity, violence in later chapters.
1. The Unsightliness of Muggle Decor

I stride into the waiting area feeling both furious and glum. The Wizengamot will pay very dearly for making me go through this nonsense. I gaze around myself and can barely restrain from retching.

The room is ghastly. It positively reeks of Muggle filth, from the blue-grey wall-to-wall carpet to the... well, I can only assume they're children's drawings covering the wall. The floor is littered with the ugliest chairs I have ever seen, and in them...

I cannot stand it any longer. Turning abruptly, I make for the exit.

Outside I swallow huge gulps of air, trying to calm my turning stomach.

It's not that the room is full of Muggles. I expected that. But these Muggles...

Muttering to themselves, or drawing on their skin, or – or drooling... I shudder at the memory.

This is the punishment the Wizengamot has set for me. They have sent me not only into the Muggle world, but to the lowest, most primitive and revolting among Muggles...

Oh, how they will pay! If it's the last thing I do, they will pay for this, I swear it.

For a good five minutes or so, all I do is stand there and envision the slow, bloody deaths of every last Wizengamot member. It settles my stomach nicely, and so I gather up whatever meagre excuse for dignity I have left and enter the... what do they call it? The surgery, was it?

Almost immediately my name is called.

A short, dark skinned boy with a clipboard smiles stupidly at me. I do not return that smile, obviously.

"What?" I bark at him, and the grin falters.

"Ehm, Mr. Malfoy, you may go in now. Dr. Platt is waiting for you."

Platt? What on Earth is a Platt? I don't believe I've ever heard such a stupid name.

He leads the way to this doctor Platt's... study? Office? I follow, and enter the door he opens for me.

"Here we are then," he says in a voice of comradeship which threatens to upset my stomach.

A woman with frighteningly unruly dark brown hair and eyes like green olives stands from behind a hideous desk. All the furniture is so plain and cheap in this place. It burns my eyes. She's young. Far too young to have completed her training to become a Healer – I mean, a doctor.

"Good afternoon," she smiles broadly as the door clicks shut behind me.

"I am here to see a 'doctor Platt'," I say, not succeeding in masking my disdain, but then not trying very hard either.

"How fortunate," she says, still grinning, "because that would be me. You must be Lucius."

"Mr. Malfoy will do," I retort automatically. I can't bear much more of this forced comradeship.

"Mr. Malfoy, then," Platt defers, but looks like she finds this slightly amusing. "Carolyn Platt here. I'm pleased to meet you."  
Without warning she grabs my hand and shakes it.

Shakes it! My hand, my fine, pure hand polluted by muck like her!

"Unhand me at once, vermin!"

She backs away, looking startled, but I scarcely notice. I wipe my hand on my sleeve.

Feel. So. Dirty!

"I'm sorry," she says, gathering her composure. I can do nothing to save mine. "Please, take a seat."

She gestures to a divan of some sort someone has carelessly left right in the middle of the floor.

She sits down in a chair, also left in the middle of the room for some unearthly reason. It's on an angle relative to the divan so that when we sit, we're facing each other, but not quite. Why, this is just laziness.

"I'm sorry I tried to shake your hand, Mr. Malfoy. I will try to respect your boundaries. Now, I would like for you to call me Carolyn -"

"I will do no such thing." _I shall call you muck, filth and vermin. Anything else would be improper._

"Very well. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Malfoy?"

I'd kill for a Firewhiskey, but I'm not accepting anything this woman gives me.

"I would not."

"A cup of coffee then, perhaps? Or some water?"

Only now I notice she's scribbling away furiously at a notepad while speaking.

"No, thank you." I don't know where the sudden politeness came from. Will it let me off sooner, if I'm amicable with the scum?

Then again, that would cost me my entire sense of self.

"All right then. How are you feeling?" she asks suddenly.

"What?"

"How are you feeling today?" she repeats.

"Phenomenal."

She raises her eyebrows. "Really?"

Does she understand the concept of sarcasm? This is like conversing with a toddler.

"I don't see what business it is of yours," I bite out.

"It is the definition of my business, Mr. Malfoy. Your thoughts and emotions are my livelihood, you might say."

Well, that's... technically true, I suppose. But what do I care? She's still filth.

"You do seem a tad uncomfortable today, Mr. Malfoy," she goes on mercilessly.

I glare, hating her. "You state your opinion very decidedly for a M – for someone so young," I correct myselfless-than-smoothly. "Pray, what is your age?"

Oh, she looks uncomfortable now. That's a small victory, at least.

"My age? Why should my age matter to you?" she asks, scribbling down notes without looking at the page.

"Answer the question, you insolent little -" I catch myself, closing my eyes to suppress my fury.

"You appear quite quick to anger," she says quietly, cautiously.

"One of my many virtues," I boast, smirking a little, "now tell me, _Platt," muck, filth, vermin, "_what is your -"

"Twenty-nine."

She doesn't look twenty-nine. I would have guessed nineteen at first, but then she's much too confident to be a teenager.

"You're incompetent," I mutter viciously. "Healer's training completes only after a student has turned -"

"Healer's training?" she gasps. _Damn. _Another slip. I could kick myself. "Well, I mean – I finished early," she adds lightly, as if she knows exactly what I'm talking about.

I'll bet she thinks she does, too. Muggles think they know everything, but what _do_ they know? Nothing at all, nothing!

Meanwhile she's scribbling so furiously I fear the paper will catch fire any second.

Her flushed, slightly smiling expression is not lost on me.

"Enjoying ourselves, are we?" I sneer at her. She looks up from her notes, her cheeks blushing even more. "Tell me, doctor _Platt, _am I an interesting case?"

She gapes, clearly surprised by the question. "Of course," she says hastily.

I just glare at her, hoping to unsettle her.

Disappointingly, it seems she is only too accustomed to stares.

"Are you all right, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I have told you. I feel absolutely terrific."

"You're quite sure about that, are you?"

"I am not here to discuss _feelings _with a flimsy little Muggle brat like yourself." _Damn._

Scribble scribble scribble.

"Then why are you here, Lucius?"

"It's Mr. Malfoy to you!"

"Of course. My apologies," she says without conviction. I really ought to teach her her place, once and for all...

"I am here only because the court has ordered me to be here."

"Ah yes. And I presume that court order does not sit well with you, does it?"

"Of course not."

"Can you specify the reasons you don't wish to be here?"

"Merlin, you do need to be spoon-fed everything, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, I think I may have misheard you. Did you just call me 'Merlin'?"

_Damn it all!_

She ploughs on, mercilessly. "What does the King Arthur legend mean to you?"

I refuse to make a slip this time. "It's a legend. It's age demands respect."

"Do you like it?"

"What?"

"Do you enjoy the story?"

"What on Earth does this have to do with anything?"

She pretends not to have heard this. "When reading that story, who do you most identify with?"

"This is utter silliness."

"I'm curious because Arthur, the protagonist, preaches tolerance and Christian values."

Ah. She thinks she's got me now, does she? I cross my arms. "And?"

"Forgive me, but you do give the impression that these are not your first priorities."

"Do I?" I ask nonchalantly, checking my nails in a display of indifference.

"What are your first priorities?"

"Survival."

"Naturally. What else?"

"What?"

"What else do you value?"

I open my mouth, but then close it again. I have to think for a moment. Can't afford another slip. What do Muggles like?

"The... er, environment," I improvise, "I find it important to preserve the environment."

She looks thoroughly puzzled now. "In what way?"

"Keeping it free of pests and vermin." What else could it possibly mean? This woman is an idiot.

"Does this relate to the crimes you've been sent here for?"

"The crimes _for which _I have been sent here," I correct her. I can't endure grammatical laziness.

"Forgive me. Would you like to discuss the crimes you committed?"

I roll my eyes at her. "Why on Earth should I wish to discuss _that _with _you?_"

She shrugs. "Why shouldn't you?"

I take a deep breath. Damn her. Why does she make everything so difficult?

"I will not tell you what I did."

"That's perfectly fine." I'm sure it is. She'll have it written down somewhere, surely. "But do you regret what you did?"

"I beg your pardon?" My voice is a hiss.

"Do you regret the crimes you committed? Do you feel remorse or wish you could undo them, I mean -"

"I am well aware of regret is, thank you very much!"

"All right. Then do you?"

"Why," I say, my voice very low and hard, "should I regret what I did?"

"From what I understand you've hurt people. I have been told you persecuted and tortured innocents. Do you have any regrets about that?"

I manage a tiny smirk. "Let me reverse the question. Do you mourn the lives of the insects you crush under your shoe on your way to work? The bacteria you boil to death when you make your tea? What regrets have you for their losses?"

"The way I see it," she begins, and I can tell she's fighting to be patient and calm, "there are two distinct differences there. One, I do not kill any creature on _purpose,_ much less for he fun of it. Two, you talk of insects and bacteria – that's not the same as a human being, I believe."

"You would say so, counting yourself as a human being, of course."

"Well, yes, I do count myself as a human being, as it happens." She's flustered now.

"See, that's where we differ. Creatures as low as you are indistinguishable from the meanest virus. I would no sooner regret killing you than I would swatting a fly."

She's forgetting her notebook, just staring at me with incredulity written all over her face.

"And what is most fascinating about this case is," I go on, keeping my voice so low she must lean forward to hear me, "that the court has decided that I, ruthless torturer of your sort, should be here, with only an overgrown schoolgirl for company twice every week... I would hope I never get bored, if I were you..."

The smiles are all gone now. There is no colour in her cheeks.

My work here is done.

"Well, this has been a most illuminating chat, doctor... Platt, was it?" Smiling briskly, I stand up, and this time _I_ shake _her_ hand, which trembles when I let it go. "I will see you again on Thursday, I believe. Good day to you."

She makes no attempt to stop me as I flounce out of the room. Well outside I pull out my pocket watch.

Just twenty minutes! Some work on the routine and I'm sure we can get it down to five. Ah, lovely. I can get used to this.


	2. The Annoyance of Domesticity

My wife is most inquisitive upon my return to the Manor.

"How was your appointment with the cyclist?"

"Psychiatrist," I correct her. Her expression is one of utter indifference. Can you blame her? "It went well. I believe I gave the filth a good fright."

She chuckles, a most agreeable, high pitched sound, which bounces off the high walls of our sitting room.

"Oh, Lucius, why would you do such a thing? They will only make you go there more often." By 'they' she means the Wizengamot, obviously.

"That is if she tells them, which she won't."

She frowns at me.

"Surely you didn't do to her what your... _colleagues_ did to that Muggle woman at the Quidditch World Cup four years ago?"

"Of course not!" I bark at the insult. Briefly my mind wanders to the spectacle I saw that night, the Muggle upside-down, mid-air, with her nightgown over her head, revealing her shame.

I shake the revolting image out of my head.

"You will go back this Thursday?" Narcissa inquires.

"Yes."

"Apologize."

"_What?_"

I can barely contain my rage. _Apologize _to filth! My wife has lost her senses.

"They are only words, Lucius. If it means you are absolved sooner, it will be worth it."

I open my mouth to retort, but just then the resident snotty milksop (I mean, our darling son) struts into the room to have a fit about something.

"Mother, these dress robes you gave me for my birthday are _so _last year! How do you expect me to show my face in public in these outdated rags?"

Now, I dread to think of what my fate may have been had I, in my youth, addressed my mother in this manner. My instinct right now is to hex the boy, but last time I tried Narcissa denied me access to my own bed for a year.

Her approach is to encourage his insolence, as she takes it as a sign that our son is a strong willed character. I only pity the poor girl he'll marry.

Poor, I say, as in unfortunate. My son will never marry a destitute woman. If she's not of wealthy heritage, how can we be sure her bloodline is pure? And worse yet, she may be Weasley spawn!

My worries are interrupted by some rather disturbing mollycoddling, courtesy of my wife.

"Oh my poor little boy, I had no idea they weren't to your taste! Let me take you to Madam Malkins, we'll get you all the new robes you want, Dickles."

_Dickles! _

"Madam Malkins!" Draco huffs, clearly offended by this suggestion. "The old hag who did my school uniforms! What's in your head, woman!"

She stands, and together they leave, arguing over shops along the way.

"Twilfitt and Tattings, then?"

"Are you trying to give me head lice?"

"Well... how about Sweeter Seams?"

"Really, Mother? Baby clothes?"

"Thorough Threading?"

Loud groans.

And they're gone. Much to my relief. I need a strong drink.

I pour myself the Firewhiskey I pined for earlier. Then another. And another. My, they go by quickly these days.

_But wait,_ a voice in my head says, having drained the third glass, _what are doing? You should plan for Thursday!_

"Yes," I say out loud to no one. Never to early to make plans! It's what we Slytherins do, isn't it...

I pour a fourth glass of Firewhiskey, just in case. I'll bring it with me to my study on the second floor.

It takes a while to get there. Why on Earth do we have so many stairs?

Finally I reach the second floor landing. Victory! It would be helpful if the hallway would stop spinning, though.

No matter. I know my way from here. The doors may spin, but I can still tell them apart, I think. I make for the door and wrench it open. As I stride into the room, something seems wrong. The walls are different. Tiled, and brighter than the Victorian tapestry of my study. And then I notice the Elf.

He notices me too and lets out a terrified shriek. It's an ear-shattering noise. He drops something on the tiled floor. Bathroom floor, I realize, embarrassed. Blank magenta stuff splatters on the tiles. Nail polish? But how...

I put on my sternest, most authoritarian Master-voice.

"_Dobby!_"

"I-it's Diddles, M-Master," he stutters.

I kick him, whoever he is, sending him flying into the wall on the other side of the room. "You've been stealing from your Mistress!"

"Not stealing, Master! Never stealing!" he cries in protest, clutching his stomach.

"Then how are you in possession of _that?_" I spit, gesturing to the garish cosmetic product.

"It was Mistress Bellatrix', Master!" he squeals hastily. "Mistress Narcissa threw it in the bin, so Diddles took it..."

"You've been stealing from our bin!" I've half a mind to beat him senseless.

"But Diddles has been teaching himself how to do manicures and pedicures, Master!" he exclaims excitedly, showing me his long, bony fingers with magenta fingernails. "Soon Diddles will cure _all_ of Master's manis and pedis!"

I have no time for this. I physically wave away his promises of spa treatments as though they were flies as he prattles.

"Dickles!" I bellow, then correct myself falteringly, "Dobbles, Dibby..." I pause to sputter obscenities. What does it matter what the bloody creature's called? He's only an Elf. "I command you to beat yourself senseless!"

For a moment he just stares. The resemblance to a pleading puppy is quite remarkable.

"Yes, Master," he then mumbles in defeat, and starts banging his large head into the wall.

I'd stay to watch, only the screams are a bit much for my stomach right now, and I have things to do... plans in need of plotting, stratagems to... steer.

On the second try I succeed in finding my study. It is furnished with opulence and taste, in stark contrast to the bland, anaemic psychiatrist's office I visited earlier today. That spineless Muggle should be here now, taking notes on how to furnish a room.

I sit behind my expansive desk. I'm still holding my glass of Firewhiskey, I notice. I sip, then place it neatly on the desk, enjoying the sight of the liquid swirling for a moment.

All right then. To business.

* * *

Tomorrow creeps up on me like bad memories and guilt. I awake at my desk, the pockets in my waistcoat stuffed with little paper notes.

Damn, my head hurts.

I pull out a handful of notes and read them, my mood going from hungover and miserable to suicidal in a few minutes.

These seemed like a feasible idea yesterday, did they? _"Accuse of being a Squib,"_ says one. _"Threaten with blackmail. _Malfoy_ blackmail,"_ says another. _"Demonstrate Dark curses on a Weasley."_ I burn them all, lest I should be caught with drunken stupidities on my person.

I head downstairs for breakfast, only to find my wife and son already present at the table. I won't deny I could have done without them, in my state. Especially my son in all his new fashionable splendour.

He's wearing a long, dark fur cape which glimmers green and purple, as well as a top hat with some kind of metallic feather things attached to the brim and blue-white linen gloves.

"Father," he greets me in a haughty, lukewarm tone. Who does he think he is, me? "How do you like my new attire?"

"Draco, you resemble a peacock who stuck his head into a bag of flour."

"Lucius!" my wife exclaims indignantly.

Breakfast is a thoroughly unpleasant affair. Later, I almost floo to the Ministry, only to remember that no politicians will accept my bribes any more. I could always go just to insult Arthur Weasley, only it's proving less enjoyable now that our world hails him as a War Hero.

I can't even maim Mudbloods these days. They're all under extra protection from former Death Eaters like myself. Did I say Mudbloods? I must work harder on that. Muggle-borns, they're called. Can't use that other word. It's forbidden. Muggle-borns, Muggle-borns, Muggle-borns.

I sigh. At least my Elf still fears me.

* * *

**A/N: Aww, poor Lucius. Sorry there's not more therapy action in this chapter, I just had to find out what the Malfoy home situation is like before I dared continue with that. Anyway, hope you're enjoying the story so far! Thank you to everyone reviewing or following, you guys keep me going :)**


	3. The Return to the Amateur

I return to Dr. Platt on Thursday feeling unprepared, having made an abominable mess of my attempts at devising a strategy against her.

Why didn't I try again last night, you ask? Well, succumbed as I had to utter misery, I instead let Dudley or whatever that wretched creature is called pamper my nails. However, I had to physically stop him from painting them magenta, and then of course kick him around a bit for his insubordination. This exertion left me quite exhausted, and by the time I went to bed I'd quite forgotten about Platt.

By the entry doors stands a massive brute. His shoulders must be at least four feet across. He's wearing pitch black spectacles I'm told muggles use to protect their weak, fragile eyes from the sun, so I can't see his eyes, but his head turns towards me as I let myself in.

Instinctively my hand tightens around the head of my cane.

Oh yes, I've got a wand there again, after Potter so generously snapped mine like a twig last year, having already sent me to jail once, and destroyed my one chance of regaining the Dark Lord's good opinion, and cost me both my servant and my post as governor of Hogwarts before that.

Damn that meddlesome brat! Damn him to hell!

True, it was his testimony that kept me out of Azkaban this time. And he did save Draco's life, I'm told. But nevertheless!

I've half a mind to follow Narcissa's suggestion and apologize to Platt. She's right, apologies are only words. I'll go in and "confess my sins", and then beg for forgiveness. If my plight moves her, I'll go home early. If not, I'll go home early anyway, just to spite her. Ha! What can she do, in any event? She's only a worthless Muggle.

I still refuse to approach the chairs in the waiting area, though I have to wait longer this time.

It's almost empty now. Only a small, terribly old woman occupies one of the aforementioned chairs, knitting. I can't remember ever seeing people knit non-magically before, so I find myself watching her, transfixed.

She works with surprising vigour and concentration for someone so old and frail. Her nose is barely an inch away from her fingers, which tremble slightly. Her wrinkly mouth moves in an even rhythm while she works, as if counting.

I suppress the urge to huff. There sits a feeble, ancient woman, put to work, knitting, without even a simple spell to do it for her. And there are some who would call _me _cruel...

Wait, what am I thinking? It should be nothing to me what this animal is put through in the name of knitting. She is scum, remember? Scum!

Speaking of scum, here comes the clipboard boy. At last.

"Morning, Mr. Malfoy," he says jovially.

I sneer down at him, icily. I think I see his mouth twitching, his eyes flickering, just for a moment. It's a small victory, at least, but he doesn't wipe off that insufferable grin as he leads me to dr. Platt's office. I don't expect _she'll_ be as quick to smile today.

But as the door clicks shut behind me, she proves me wrong. Quite wrong.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," she smiles serenely. Has she forgotten what transpired when we last met? I admit, I wouldn't expect this level of naïveté even from a Muggle.

"Good morning, Dr. _Platt._" I greet her in a sneering drawl, watching her carefully for any signs of... I don't know what. I was hoping for suppressed terror, or at least revulsion.

Again she gestures to the divan. "Please."

I confess myself... intrigued. I cannot observe any sign that her composure, her insufferable affability, is forced. And I've been in the Dark Lord's service long enough to know a charade of sang-froid when I see one.

I sit. So does she, notebook and pen at the ready.

"Sadly I have to tell you there won't be an early exit for you today."

I smile with complete resentment. Damn her. "I take it you hired the gorilla?" I inquire, remembering the vastness of the man outside.

It's heinously unfair. I _could _skin that man alive, but using magic in broad daylight in a crowded street won't help me avoid Azkaban at all. And I will not fight him without magic. I have no death wish.

"I did. How are you feeling?"

I sigh impatiently. Her smile grows wider. Her expression is kin to that of a conceited child having been rewarded house points for answering the simplest of questions in class.

Much like Lily Evans, in fact. Insufferable, self-important, foolish, filthy, forbidden, terribly attractive Lily Evans. But I digress...

"I know you're not eager to do so, but sooner or later you need to open up to me about your feelings."

That's such a Lily Evans thing to say. I get the most peculiar urge to pull her hair.

"I need to do no such thing. Emotions are the perquisite of women."

"You seem a little on edge."

"And you seem meddlesome and uppity."

"Are you feeling guilty about your demeanour last time?"

This is it. _Yes, _I'll say. _Yes, I apologize for my lack of decorum. Please forgive my incivility, Dr. Platt,_ no,_ Carolyn, _is what I'll say. I'll use first names like a commoner. She'll like that.

"Of course not!"

Merlin. Did I say that? _Why _did I say that?

"I expected as much," she says, her expression impassive. Do I detect a hint of hubris? "Why were you so hostile?"

Still she appears serene in her attitude.

"I was provoked," I say simply.

"By what?"

"By you."

She leans back in her seat, eyeing me carefully.

"By me," she says quietly.

"You're remarkably quick on the uptake," I remark coldly.

"Does this have anything at all to do with my ancestry?"

"As I say," I sigh impatiently, "_remarkably quick._"

"What exactly is the reason for your animosity against Jewish people?"

I blink. I have to say, I did not expect that one.

"_Platt_ is no Hebrew name."

"No, it's not. My father isn't Jewish," she clarifies.

"That is a highly problematic way of regulating the bloodlines," I say fleetingly, briefly imagining a world where I would have to father daughters for the Malfoy heritage of blood purity to live on in future generations. Daughters, in addition to Draco? Heaven have mercy.

She scribbles for a while. We're quiet. Then:

"How are things at home, Lucius?"

I shrug, quite content with the change of subject. "They're pleasant enough. And," I add in a much angrier tone, realizing the error that just passed, "it's Mr. Malfoy to you!"

She ignores this. "Does your son still live at home?"

"Regrettably," I mutter before I can stop myself.

This, of course, intrigues her greatly.

"How so?"

_Oh, bugger off._

How does she even know about Draco? We haven't discussed him before, have we?

"Who told you I have a son?" I ask calmly, but with a definite edge to my voice.

"When I took your case I was sent quite a lot of information you were expected to... er, object to giving voluntarily."

"So am I to understand that the facts you require to do your job have already been given to you?"

"Some of the facts, yes, but -"

"Then why," I begin in a low voice, but it rises in decibel with each word, "am I expected to sit here and put up with your tedious antics to get me to talk _nonsense_ with _you, for two whole hours each week!_"

"Mind the gorilla," she says warningly.

I might have laughed at this, once... but damn her! Damn her to hell!

"I don't require you to talk nonsense, Mr. Malfoy. In order to do my job, in order for me to _help _you -"

I huff indignantly.

"... _in order for me to help you,_" she insists, "I need to know you. What your experience of the world is, both intellectual and emotional."

There's a pause while I consider this. And yes, I do consider it. I am nothing if not diplomatic, wouldn't you agree?

"And given our last two appointments I can only assume you don't care much for the intellectual aspect."

"No," she says immediately, looking offended. "No, if you prefer, we can start with the intellectual aspect. It's only _customary_ to wait due to the nature of emotions weighing more heavily on our subconscious development than facts -"

"Lamentably, Dr. Platt, I am no customary man."

She nods slowly in agreement, clicking her pen a couple of times.

"So," she says aptly, turning to a new page in her notebook and training her pen on the paper, "the facts."

I nod. "The facts."

"Tell me about yourself."

* * *

It's the oddest thing, but once I've started volunteering facts, the adjectives and superlatives and such are never far behind. I try to stick to the purely objective side when she asks about my son.

Tall, brooding, spoiled rotten. Those are the facts about Draco. Those are all I need to volunteer to Platt. But before I know it I've said he "clings to his mother like syrup, of course she spoils and pampers him endlessly, foolish woman, foolish, shallow woman, I should have married her sister, like my father always said, at least _she_ had some ambition, some power... where she is? Oh, she's dead, murdered by a housewife, having murdered her niece first, no, not my wife, oh and not her niece as in _my _daughter, no, I've never had a daughter, but poor woman, having spent half her life in jail and lost her mind... what for? For torturing two Aur- I mean, two, er, _police...-ers_ into insanity... you'd have liked her, _she_ was a _truly_ fascinating mental case."

"If we could go back to your son for a moment..."

"Who, Draco? Yes, he's a complete nuisance. I could tolerate him when he worshipped the ground wherever I trod and at worst _tried _not to humiliate himself in public. Whereas now... What do you mean, _strange names?_ I wouldn't trust the naming opinions of a _Platt, _thank you..."

I stop myself from saying anything about servants. Apparently in Muggle society, slavery is considered an abomination. I will never guess how these people live through anything.

However, much to my irritation and embarrassment, I find myself enjoying this.

And then the hour's up. I leave untroubled by the gorilla.

By next time, I'll have that strategy ready. By next time, or I don't know what might happen.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks to all my sweet shiny reviewers! **

**This was the part of the story where writing it felt a bit like dragging a carriage full of bricks up a hill. Hopefully it's not as bad to read, hehe. Anyway, we got over the edge there, I think. Phew!**


	4. The Venture to the Public Wilderness

I have one thought in my head upon my return to the Manor, and one thought only.

_Drink._

Strong, hard, stiff drink. Oceans of the stuff.

To my horror, we are out of Firewhiskey.

Did I have the lot last night? I really can't remember. I almost hope it was Draco who finished it.

I briefly consider getting sloshed on plain cognac instead, like an animal. But then I decide it's out of the question. I still have my dignity, damn it all!

However, I take a couple of shots, just to steel myself for a venture to the out-of-doors.

Having left Dr. Platt's office in London and returned to Wiltshire, it would be unseemly to return to London _again_ visit Diagon Alley today, especially for no other reason than to acquire spirits. People might... talk. They already talk, damn them, but nevertheless.

So, reluctantly, I instead travel (by floo powder this time, lest excess Apparition splinches me in half) to Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade train station, to be exact. The owner of my actual destination prefers the customers to arrive through the front door.

And yes, reluctantly. I have no wish to be seen here, so close to the scene of my Lord's downfall, though it's not the first time I've been here since then. Frankly I have few alternatives. Most barkeepers in this country won't so much as look at a former Death Eater. It's a disgrace, I agree.

Naturally I'm wearing my fur cloak. You can never count on Hogsmeade not to play host to a snowstorm, even in July. The town is covered with snow all year round. I also have a rather fetching cashmere scarf. I use it to hide my face in case photographers from the Prophet should emerge from the bushes. But they don't, thankfully. Not today. Not now.

I pass the Three Broomsticks. I think I shall die before entering that establishment willingly. As if I have a choice. The witch who runs it (the name escapes me for the moment) won't let Malfoys in after my son kept her under the Imperius curse for nearly a year.

Ha! I'd forgotten he did that. Perhaps the little ingrate isn't _entirely_ useless, after all...

The door to Hog's Head creaks loudly in protest at my entrance, but the nameless barman here does nothing to prevent me from being present.

This is not my first visit to Hog's Head after the war. I've whiled away many a lonely evening in this place after every respectable establishment turned me away with a curt "your lot aren't welcome here".

Thankfully, apart from the aforementioned oaf, the bar is empty.

"Firewhiskey, if you would," I tell him, sitting down at the counter.

"Say please," he replies grudgingly into his beard, but fetches the bottle without waiting for a reply.

In case you haven't guessed, we don't like each other, him and I. He only tolerates me for my wealth, and because he's bought into Potter's whole 'forgive and forget' campaign, or was it 'live and let live'? - and I only tolerate him for his steady supply of spirits.

"How much for the bottle?"

"Ten galleons."

"Outrageous."

"Not a knut less."

"Very well. I'll take four."

Well stocked, and pleasantly drunk, I take my leave.

Now, I say pleasantly drunk, but I don't consider it _necessarily _unpleasant to kick the cups of beggars on my way back to the train station. What do they expect? If the Ministry won't allow me to mutilate muggles, what else am I meant to do for fun?

The cup shoots several yards away and the beggar swears and scrambles after it. As he bends to pick it up his backside is positioned so very perfectly for a kicking I can't help myself. My boot connects sharply with the round mass, toppling the beggar over and sending him face-first into the snow. I laugh, my first real, joyful laugh since the War.

_- flash -_

Oh no! Prophographers from the Photet! Three of them! They caught my misdeeds on camera!

Out of habit, I turn my wand on them.

"Hand over the film this instant and no one gets hurt!"

_- flash -_

For God's sake!

I hurt one of them, obviously. Nothing too severe, only a mild stinging jinx. I say mild, but you wouldn't guess that for the screams.

_- flash – flash -_

"I said to hand the film over! Let that be a lesson to all of you!

The beggar is on his feet again and has taken to pelting me with snow.

"Take that, you bullying ponce!"

"Desist this instant, you swine!"

At that moment the doors to the Three Broomsticks open and out pours a very unfortunate collection of people: the half-giant Hagrid, Professors Horace Slughorn and Minerva McGonagall, the old fool Fudge and... and... _oh Lord. _

Arthur Weasley, who is a walking offence to all the senses at the best of times, accompanied by one of his insufferable children.

"Lucius!" Slughorn booms, striding over with his arms outstretched and with that old jovial smile on his moustache-adorned mouth. "Having a good old frolic in the snow, I take it?"

"Er, yes, Horace," I say unconvincingly. "Me and my... _dear childhood friend_ here were just... reliving our youthful days."

"Bollocks! He's a bully and a pig, and he just bleedin' assaulted me for no reason!"

"Ha ha! Ha ha! Ah yes, very amusing," I cling to the lie for dear life. "My friend and I share a rather unusual sense of humour," I explain to Slughorn, but the bewildered frown on his brow is not at all softened.

"This is what I think of _your _sense of humour, you slimy bastard!" the beggar shouts, before spitting, well, attempting to spit in my face, but he can't reach that high, so instead the thick, massive glob lands in my beloved cashmere scarf.

Why, I ought to -

_- flash – click -_

"Are those photographers, in the bushes?" McGonagall asks, frowning at the three of them.

"Yes, I... called them here to take pictures of my friend and I, you see, we are in fact rehearsing a play, in which I play both a bully and a pig, and I thought we ought to get some promotional images taken -"

_- flash -_

"Codswallop!" the beggar asserts. McGonagall draws closer to me, wand in hand. I hope to God she doesn't smell the Firewhiskey on my breath – _the Firewhiskey!_

"Oh, but I've completely forgotten! My friend, isn't your birthday any day now?" I ask the beggar, then immediately pull one of the bottles out of my cloak and shove it into his chest. "Happy birthday, old friend!" I exclaim, but have my gaze tell him, in no uncertain terms, that it's time to _fuck. Off. _

On a day full of failures, this _one _thing goes without a hitch. His mask of pure loathing switches to an amicable grin in under a second.

"Oh, er, right-o! Thanks, and er, good work today, acting-wise and such," he finishes awkwardly, before obediently fucking off, holding the Firewhiskey like it's a little child.

_- click – flash -_

Oh good. I turn back to the others. McGonagall has thought better of approaching me.

"As you can see, my friend there has quite captured his character, playing a poor beggar. I can't even begin to approach his talent -"

"He attacked one of us too, look!" one of the photographers yell, pointing at the one I hexed earlier.

The hexed photographer tries to chime in, but the swelling around the mouth is too great for her words to be even remotely comprehensible.

"Blh buh-hnn hrrum gll!" she argues.

"Ah, now this is a rather clever, er, _mask-work,_ wouldn't you agree?" God, this is getting entirely out of hand. "Yes, I dabble in costume designs these days -"

"Yer lyin'!" Hagrid exclaims gruffly. "Jus' like ye were doin' after both Wars, an' like what ye were doin' back in nine'y-two when the Chamber were open'd -"

Oh no, they're not going to bring that up, are they? That was _ages _ago!

"My dear fellow, you must forgive me, but I simply can't comprehend a_ word _you're saying -"

"Hnguluh fhnn!"

_- flash -_

"Now I don't think this is the time or place to reopen old wounds -" Slughorn begins.

"Maybe you'd forgotten about the Chamber of Secrets, Malfoy, but I certainly had _not!_"

Oh God, it's the Weasley spawn. The youngest. I'd hoped never to have to so much as look at her since my diary scheme went so horribly awry all those years ago, but there she is now, marching up to me for a long overdue confrontation about how I destroyed her whole life and am an evil bastard et cetera.

Truthfully, I can't blame her. I only wish she'd choose a more private setting where I could erase her memory afterwards.

"Remember? Tom Riddle's diary? The Basilisk and all those people it attacked? I was eleven! _Eleven! I nearly DIED! _What was in your head, you sick, sick _bastard!_"

"Now now, Ginevra," Slughorn begins again, "calm down -"

"Put a sock in it, Slug'orn!" Hagrid yells.

"WHY?!" the Weasley girl demands, ignoring the others. "Why give _me_ that awful diary, why _me?_ Answer me, damn you!"

She's... really quite slow, isn't she? Discrediting her father, getting rid of Dumbledore, defeating the Muggle Protection Act, killing some Mudbloods, watching the mayhem unfold and having a laugh – I had more reasons than I could eat. Where to begin?

That, in any event, is immaterial. I was never found guilty of this, ergo I never did it.

I blink several times. "I really can't fathom how any of this pertains to _me,_ Miss Weasley."

_- flash -_

"Don't you try slithering your way out of this, Malfoy!" comes Arthur Weasley's voice.

_Oh, fuck off, just fuck off! _

"We all know you slipped my daughter that diary!"

"Sorry, what diary? This is all quite foreign to me, Arthur -"

_- flash – click – flash -_

"Now now," comes Fudge's voice, "let us be calm, this is no place for such accusations -"

"Well spoken, Cornelius! Neither the place nor time!" Slughorn chimes in.

"Very true. Come, Hagrid," says McGonagall, turning to walk towards the school.

But Hagrid lingers, glaring with hate in his pitch-black little eyes, before pointing at me with a massive forefinger warningly. "One day, Malfoy. One day, ye'll get wha's comin' to ya. Just ye wait."

Keeping my mask of affable incredulity, I reply; "I shall look forward to it."

_- flash -_

"_Fucking hell, will you fuckers fuck the fuck off with your fucking cameras!_" the Weasley girl shrieks at the photographers.

And, to my horror, they begin to do so, trotting along smugly.

"No!" I shout after them. "Don't fuck off! Give me the blasted film!"

"Leg it!" one of them yells to the other two. They eagerly obey this. I run after them.

"Oi! You're not leaving, Malfoy!" I hear the Weasley brat's voice chasing me.

"Don't let 'im get 'is 'ands on that film!" Hagrid joins in the chase, by the sound of it.

"Ginny! Be careful!" comes Arthur Weasley's voice, and I'm guessing he's joining too.

It's beginning to look hopeless, that is, until I remember that I don't have to run after them like a lowly muggle. I have a wand now.

I point it at them and make them all stumble over their own legs, one by one. The cries of pain are quite pleasant as they slam face first into the frozen ground.

I grab one of their cameras and smash it into the ground, and am just about to do it with the rest when the Weasley spawn catches up with me and wastes no time in bringing her knee up to connect sharply with my loins.

_Oh, no, she did not. She did _not_ just -_

_Yes. She actually did._

_God – fucking Christ._

Hellish, monstrous agony. I double over, hissing and panting – _Jesus – _the little – the little bitch!

How fucking _dare _she -

God almighty. I can't think in sentences. I can't – I should murder her. I should kill her with fire.

_- flash – click – click – flash -_

_Oh, damn it all to hell!_

"Ginny, are you all right?" Weasley asks his daughter, having just arrived at the scene, as I push myself up to stand, oh, oh so slowly.

"Never better," she answers her father, grinning cruelly at me. God, how my fingers ache to snap her little neck -

_Later, Malfoy. Later._

The rest of the ensemble have also gathered. All of them. McGonagall, Fudge, Hagrid, Slughorn. All staring at me with varying degrees of confusion and distrust. Even loathing. Fair enough. Let them stare.

I've decided the time is ripe to ensure none of this is ever believed. By anyone. Including the people present.

Even including myself, if I'm lucky.

"Let's go home," the absolute fucking bitch says to her father.

He nods, and they begin to walk away together, but I - I have to -

"Wait, Arthur," I say, my voice ambitiously loud as my eyes are swimming.

"What?" he asks, not even turning for so long.

"Arthur, I have been lying to myself for too long!" and I approach him, slowly, mock-nervously.

He turns around, now, a flummoxed expression on his brow.

_- click – flash -_

What am I doing? _What am I doing?_

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" Weasley's eyes narrow at me, suspiciously.

I feign a wounded expression. "Please Arthur. Let's have no more of this hostility, this – this coldness! Hasn't it cost us both enough already?"

_What am I doing?!_

_- flash -_

"I've been a fool, Arthur, I see that now -"

"Uhm, Dad?"

"Lucius -"

"Arthur."

_- flash -_

_WHAT AM I DOING?!_

I grasp Weasley's robes and pull him towards me, locking my lips with his.

The clicks and flashes of the cameras go off like a series of fireworks. I smile into Arthur Weasley's gaping mouth. None of these cretins are going anywhere.

* * *

**A/N: Yup. I don't know. I just wanted to have some fun. This development confused me a bit, but Lucius had his reasons, I assure you. You'll discover what they were in the next chapter. Anyway, as always, I love me some reviews and will respond by PM, so please leave some if you want to. And I promise to update more quickly in the future!**


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